I was reminded today of yet another tongue injury I endured while I was a child. If you are a frequent reader, you probably have already read about the time I licked a razor.
What reminded me of this particular injury was watching Biter encounter a cat for the first time. Well no the first time ever, because, for some reason when he was very little (still just hanging out in the car seat not doing much) people felt compelled to coax their cats to come and sniff him.
Aww isn’t that cute. Look he is sitting on your baby. So sweet.
No not sweet, your cat is a death machine that would gladly eat my child if he were any smaller.
Today was the first time Biter was big enough to meet a cat on a more intentional level, and that was even scarier for me.
One-year-old babies will grab and pull and basically piss off a cat and sit there waiting for the cat to cut them up with their razor sharp claws.
And that is what brings me back to my story.
I was probably four and I thought I hated cats. (I don’t). So when Chico, (the cat of the particular home I was playing in at the time,) came sauntering past, I decided it would be awesome to pull his tail, and that’s what I did. Only to add insult to injury I also stuck my tongue at the cat while doing it.
The next moment is permanently implanted in my memory. I can see the cat lurch back from me, totally glaring as I stick my stupid tongue out. As if in slow motion, the creature launches itself upward claws extended I swear those claws were like fresh razors blades.
A row of fishhooks clutched at the meat of my tongue and ripped their way down.
I screamed, and the blood started to flow out of my mouth.
Fast-forward thirty years. Do you think I trust my kids around cats? Do you think I trust cats around my kids?
Do you think I ever pulled a cats tail again?
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